


My love, I crave you softly

by CureIcy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Coming Out, Consent, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Martin Blackwood Has ADHD, Recovery, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), and martin thinks it's cute, and y'all can pry that from my cold dead hands at the peak of rigor mortis, but i was scared of rejection and you were scared of intimacy, jon has too many eyes, learning to communicate in a healthy way, so much consensual hand holding you guys, soft, unless...?, very soft, what if there was only one bed and we were both guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25673932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CureIcy/pseuds/CureIcy
Summary: Martin and Jon learn to heal and fall deeper in love during the safehouse period. It's like a dance, of healing and learning and wanting to be better, and there's no one Martin would rather do it with.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 43
Kudos: 187
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	My love, I crave you softly

They’ve been in the safehouse for four days now, and Jon hasn’t touched him since the first day.

Martin still remembers when Jon let go. When they slipped off their socks and shared a glance, lifetimes passing between their gaze, and explored the house together. They found the kitchen (Martin is self conscious about his cooking, Jon is an excellent cook but rarely had the time for it), the backyard (Martin saw a highland cow and started infodumping, while Jon had the softest expression ever when he looked over) and the basement (filled with camping supplies.) The two of them moved as one, with little glances at each other and little touches and gestures and soft, excited words.

Then, Martin opened the bedroom door, he heard a sharp intake of breath from Jon, and they fell out of sync in that moment. Martin glanced over, but Jon was shut off, pulling his hand out of Martin’s grasp, shrinking into his jumper that used to fit but now highlighted every bone and angle.

“Jon?” Martin took a step forward, and Jon took a step back. Like a waltz, but Martin didn’t want this. He moved back to his original position, and Jon gave him a strained smile.

“I’ll check the closet for extra blankets,” was all he said. Jon has been sleeping on the couch for the past few nights, and the thing that hurts most is Martin doesn’t know what happened. Yes, he respects Jon’s boundaries, but he doesn’t know what those are and he feels like he’s being avoided.

It’s been too long. Martin is trying, he’s _really_ trying to get rid of the idea that everyone hates him, but he can feel the familiar sensation burning its way up his chest. So he gathers up what little courage he has that night, and decides to confront his problems like a normal person, rather than avoiding them like an anxious adult whose fight-or-flight response is activated at the slightest sign of conflict.

“Are you mad at me?” Martin asks, a half hour or so after dinner. Jon is sitting on the couch, reading, and Martin carefully sits down at the other end.

“Hm?” Jon sets down his book, looking genuinely confused. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“You’ve been avoiding me since we walked into the bedroom on Tuesday.”

“I’m not angry at you,” Jon says carefully. It sounds like there’s a second half to that, but Jon doesn’t say anything more.

“Then can you please tell me what’s wrong?

“Martin, I—” Jon starts, then stops again. “I don’t know how to say this.”

“Well, I mean, something is better than nothing, right?” Martin’s rambling again. Of course he is. He pushes down the familiar shame, composes himself, and continues. “Even if you can’t say it eloquently, it’s not like giving a statement. And people are supposed to communicate in healthy relationships, right?”

“I think so, yes. I’m...new to the concept.”

“Yeah, me too.” Martin laughs a little, even though it’s not really funny.

“Well. You know how I’ve been sleeping on the couch, right?”

“Yes.”

“I— I’m scared, I suppose. Of the fact that there’s only one bed. It’s almost funny, really. I’ve come close to dying at the hands of eldritch fear gods so many times, but pushed on, and then fear of intimacy is what really gets me. It’s not even one of Smirke’s Fourteen.”

“By intimacy, do you mean— ”

“Maybe?” Jon puts his head in his hands, and Martin wishes he could wrap an arm around his shoulders, but he knows Jon wouldn’t like that. Not now. “Martin, when I said I wanted to be together, I meant it. But I don’t love in the same way that most people do.”

“Jon, we’re both men. We’re not going to love in the same way that most of the world does, and that’s okay.”

“But it’s more than that, Martin. I’ve never felt...” He sighs again, close to tears, and there’s nothing Martin can do to help. "I don't want… I love you, but I don't want you, physically. I’m incapable of feeling sexual attraction, and I don’t want to disappoint you."

“Jon. Look at me.” Jon lifts his head, expression a wide-eyed echo of a memory. _What do you see?_ “You can’t push people away just because you’re scared you aren’t enough for them. Okay? You were the one who taught me that.”

Jon gives a wry smile, but there’s a bit of hope there. ”I did do that, didn’t I.”

“I know I’m still— still learning to set boundaries, but you can set some too. Sex is off the table, and that’s fine. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, please let me know so I can fix it. We can trade nights in the bed so the couch doesn’t hurt your back quite as much, and I won’t pressure you about it.”

“You’re not bothered by this?” Jon asks, blinking owlishly.

“Not really?” Martin shrugs. “I had sex once. Maybe it was a mistake, but I was lonely and he was a nice conversationalist, so I thought it was worth it at the time. The experience was all right, but I can live without it.”

“Really?” Jon looks morbidly curious. “People talk about it as though it’s the best experience in the world.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, it isn’t bad, not at all, but if you gave me the choice between sex and having a picnic near some good cows, I’d take the latter.”

“Well, I know what we’re doing tonight, then,” Jon says, with a relieved smile. “I’ll pack some sandwiches, and the green blanket. That one’s your favorite, right?”

“Yeah.” Martin smiles softly, thinking this conversation wasn’t nearly as hard he expected. And it feels wonderful to step out of the role of caretaker and have someone else care about him, for once. Already, they are finding ways to show their love. “I’m glad you noticed.”

“Of course,” Jon says with a nod, like it’s a given. Then, more tentatively, “Can I hold your hand?”

“Always.” Martin reaches out and makes sure to leave his hand carefully at the midpoint between himself and Jon, and nearly melts when Jon takes his hand and starts rubbing small circles into the back of it, soothing little gestures made all the more so by the sensation of his callouses.

Martin is most likely touch starved, he knows, but undoing all of the hurt embedded in his personality is painful. Jon is kind and loyal and wouldn’t ever leave him, but a part of Martin is still stuck in the Lonely. And the Lonely looks an awful lot like the hospital waiting room, hoping his mother will change her mind and let him visit. Human touch, touch with no intention other than comfort, feels like coming in from the cold only to find a roaring fire that hurts when it thaws the nerves. 

Martin is familiar with loneliness and sadness and pining. But love? Love is a foreign concept to him, a journey through unexplored territory, and there’s no one Martin would rather take that journey with.

The sensation is vaguely panic-inducing, yet comforting, and slowly fades to pure comfort as he grows accustomed to it. It’s nice. Martin gathers up his courage and gives Jon’s hand a little squeeze, which is quickly returned. The two of them lock eyes for a moment, just a moment, before Jon smiles in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle and the age lines of his face disappear, and Martin has to look away because he is so beautiful.

“Can we take it slow?” Martin asks, still all too aware of the warmth of Jon’s skin. “Overall, I mean.”

“Of course.”

The itch that precedes a poem starts in Martin’s mind, of tempo and dances. Not like the unknowing, but a waltz, a gentle dance with a hand clasped in his and another around his waist. A negotiation of step by step, learning to accomodate for each other. He knows sometimes they may step on each other’s toes, but they’re learning to dance together.

“I want to write poetry about you,” Martin says abruptly. “I know it’s not that good, but it’s— it’s what I have.”

“It’s sweet,” Jon says. Then, more seriously, “You’re creating something. Bringing something beautiful into the world. So it’s not anything to be ashamed of. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I ever insulted it.”

“Thanks.”

“I’d actually like to create something myself, someday,” Jon continues. “I’ve been a bit of a workaholic lately— ”

“Only a bit?” Martin raises an eyebrow playfully. “Only lately?”

“All right, I was obsessed with my work long before it was a matter of life and death.” Jon sighs fondly. “My point is, between work and losing my humanity, I think it would do me some good to have a creative outlet. So I can add to the world rather than take from it.”

“That’s not true! You’re doing your best, and you saved me from the Lonely. You’re not a burden, Jon. You’re staying human and holding onto love despite everything.”

“And you’re making art to process everything that’s happened rather than turning to the same old unhealthy coping mechanisms,” Jon counters. “You’re doing amazing.”

Martin flushes, and thinks of Jon’s stalking phase when he was suspicious of the entire institute. “It’s just poetry. It’s not really good enough to show anyone.”

“It’s part of you. It’s more than good enough.”

* * *

They head out together, Jon carrying the blanket and Martin with the picnic basket. The grass is soft beneath their feet, and the wind carries with it the fresh scent of things that are old and will continue to be forever, a refreshing sort of eternity. When Jon stumbles, Martin offers his elbow, and Jon takes it gratefully.

Finally, at the top of a sloping hill that seems to be fresh out of a Ghibli film, Martin stops, filling his lungs deep with the glorious sky. The land here is sprawling, but he isn’t alone, and he can see exactly how beautiful the world is. And of course, there are highland cows grazing nearby. Martin wonders if Studio Ghibli will ever make a movie featuring them; they're such incredible animals, and he can't believe he's seen so many up close.

“Well, this looks like a good place for a picnic,” Jon says.

Martin nods idly, taking the other side of the blanket and spreading it over the grass. “Mm. Very cottagecore.”

“Cottagecore?” Jon’s expression goes blank for a minute, then he sighs. “Ah. Apparently the Beholding has access to tumblr. It’s changed a lot since I left. Cottagecore does seem to fit, yes.”

“Hold on, you had a tumblr?” Martin can hardly believe it. “When was this?”

“University. I suppose I liked dark academia before it was cool, although I was mainly there for Today I Learned and inclusive positivity.” He settles himself on the blanket, joints stiff, and opens up the picnic basket. “I haven’t been there in years.”

“I still have a small poetry blog,” Martin confesses. “I haven’t touched it in years, though. I got a nasty anon ask, and felt so self conscious I just stopped posting, and then the purge happened and I never really got back to it. But the LGBT positivity really helped me, you know.”

“Mm.” Jon casts his eyes downwards, meticulously unpacking the food for each of them. “That was nice. I found the labels that fit me, and people like me. But seeing as Tim warned me Elias was homophobic, I went back into the closet when I started working here. Academia isn’t exactly the most diverse place, and I had to be professional.”

“What did you use?” Martin asks.

“Biromantic and asexual.” He twists a thin black ring on his middle finger, one that Martin hasn’t seen him wear before. “It meant a lot to me, to discover there was a word for it. But I think I forgot, and started calling myself broken again.”

* * *

They walk back to the cottage side by side, and Martin watches the long shadows they cast sway with every step they take. Sometimes Jon’s shadow does things it’s not supposed to, shades of green that don’t belong on grass and shapes like eyes opening and closing. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, doesn’t bring it up. If Martin stares long enough at Jon’s bicep, he sees something staring back at him, blinking sleepily.

That’s okay. Martin thinks having lots of eyes is actually very cute, although he’s not sure Jon is ready for that conversation yet. Maybe someday; after all, they have all the time in the world.

Their shadows tangle and mesh, and Martin starts swinging the arm that’s not carrying the picnic basket. The shadow of Martin’s hand brushes the shadow of Jon’s, first on accident then on purpose. Then the shadow of Jon’s hand moves closer, and Martin is surprised to feel Jon’s fingers touching his, not quite holding hands, but ready. Poised. Uncertain.

“Is this okay?” Jon asks, voice low.

“It’s perfect,” Martin tells him, completing the gesture and giving Jon’s hand a little squeeze. It’s easier this time, and someday he thinks it’ll be the most natural thing in the world to hold hands.

* * *

The sun is setting when they return, bathing the wooden beams with a golden cast and setting the dust motes ablaze. A cow somewhere in the distance lets out a soft call, and Jon brushes the grass from the blanket, placing it carefully on the hall table.

There are little routines for each of them, like Jon tapping his toothbrush three times on the bathroom sink and Martin sitting cross legged on the bed to write, little routines that calm them. Martin like to finish the day with a bit of poetry, about the day and his thoughts, feeling them settle into something like order. He’s missing the last line or so, he thinks, but the day isn’t quite over yet. Maybe he’ll finish the poem in the morning.

Jon pardons himself to record a statement, and Martin nods and taps his pencil against his chin. It’s a good poem, he thinks, one of his better ones. His poetry has always been a bit reserved, but he wants to tap into something deeper, to dig up every feeling of his and write something profound. And this, this is a start. It makes him feel something. It’s uniquely Martin, and he feels a little flutter of happiness and pride at what he’s created. Maybe he’ll even show this one to Jon. Once it’s finished, that is.

When the sun’s light is finally gone, Martin reaches across to turn on the lamp, then stares at his writing. He’s been writing poetry for years, but never really… thought about it. Is it to create, to process, to keep all of his words in one place? He wants to change the world for the better someday, with his words, but they only have as much power as he gives them. And his mother’s words were something powerful, something to be feared, something that hurt. Martin doesn’t want to hurt, but he’s seeing the larger picture now. And it’ll be okay.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice comes from the doorway. 

“Oh!” Martin snaps his notebook shut, pencil still trapped inside. “Did you want the bed tonight? I can move, I’ll just— yeah.”

“Actually, I’d—” Jon swallows, hard. “If you don’t mind, we can share the bed. Just… sleeping.”

Martin’s heart leaps into his chest. “I don’t mind at all,” he says.

“I know I have been… distant, but I want to _choose_ to be open. I want to trust you, and to make this work between us. And... I think I also want to fall asleep together. No expectations, just listening to your breathing. The nights are so long, and I want you by my side.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Martin gives him a smile, and it comes easier than he remembers.

Martin changes in the bedroom, and Jon comes out of the bathroom with his hair in a low ponytail and a pair of gym shorts poking out from the hem of an oversized shirt. It’s a picture of vulnerability, one that he tries his best to hide from the rest of the world, but Martin cannot help but be reminded that he is hopelessly, gloriously in love.

“Have you taken your melatonin?” Jon asks, flicking off the light behind him. The movement stretches his scar into a thin white line, fading in the lamplight.

“I will,” Martin promises. He pops open the pill container and washes them down with the dregs of his water bottle. He coughs when the tablet gets stuck in his throat, and Jon passes him the glass of water from his own side of the table. Martin takes it gratefully, washing away the prickly feeling in his throat.

“Do you have enough medication to last you?” Jon asks carefully.

“Yeah. I buy melatonin in bulk, and the concerta will last another two months.” Martin picks up his bag of medications and starts rifling through, the rattle echoing in the room. It’s too dark to read the labels, but he can see the general shapes and know them by touch. “I’ve also got tylenol for headaches, acetaminophen for generalized aches, icyhot for muscle soreness, a couple brands of allergy medications, band-aids, antibiotic cream, some gauze, uh…. Large pressure bandages, and a field guide to treating various wounds. I think Basira updated my first aid kit, wow. But yeah, I like to be prepared.”

“I’m glad. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will.” Martin passes the now half empty glass back to Jon, sets down his bag, and climbs under the covers. Jon joins him a minute later, and Martin is acutely aware of his presence, of every little shift and hum of the blankets and the mattress. The lamp shuts off with a tiny click, and the room fades to monochrome, silhouettes resolving into shapes as his eyes adjust.

“Good night, Martin,” Jon whispers, and tentatively reaches across the expanse of the covers. He pauses, halfway, and Martin gives him an encouraging smile, dipping his head in acknowledgement. Jon’s fingers brush Martin’s hair away from his eyes, leaving sparkling trails of warmth and peace in their wake.

Martin smiles, and Jon curls up, letting out a deep sigh. Martin listens as his breathing slows, the covers shift, and eyes blink in and out like fireflies to watch him in the not yet complete darkness. Jon is so small, fragile, birdlike. He has been aged beyond his years by trauma, yet he cares more than ever. It makes Martin want to curl around him, to keep him warm and safe from the world. 

“Good night, love,” Martin whispers. The breeze carries his words away, but he knows they will return.

Sometime in the night, Martin becomes aware of an arm draped across his chest. It is thin and wiry, and he can feel a few of Jon’s scars through the thin cotton of his t shirt. It feels like an anchor, like a center of gravity, like all of him is drawn to it.

_What do you see?_

Jon’s hair has fallen out of its hairtie, and is splayed out on the pillow, silver hairs glowing in the moonlight. An eye that shouldn’t be there crinkles at the corners like it’s smiling, then slowly closes. His chest rises and falls, and Martin can almost imagine he sees the spot where his missing ribs should be. 

_I see you, Jon._

Happiness, touch, love, were once foreign concepts. But slowly, as the days go by, Martin feels at home for the first time, here with the one he loves.

**Author's Note:**

> _Take my hand, and dance  
>  Come away, away with me, run  
> Through highlands and shadows  
> Let’s laugh  
> Your eyes are beautiful  
> And I’m lost  
> On this journey of healing  
> I’m glad it’s you.  
> (It always has been)  
> Hands, placed carefully  
> One, two, three  
> Spin and I will admire you  
> How could I not?  
> We set the tempo  
> But the fiddler will not know unless we speak  
> Speak, dearest.  
> I could listen to your voice all day  
> And your breathing all night.  
> ~Martin K Blackwood_


End file.
